


Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hello, dear," he says, and he's sure that's enough. River knows him, all his faces. He doesn't think she'll have trouble recognizing this one after a moment.</p><p>His hearts pound in his chest as she stops and looks at him, her eyes scanning his face before she looks him up and down. Apparently it's not as easy as he thought, though, because she promptly huffs, steps toward him, and kicks him soundly between the legs.</p><p>"Don't 'dear' me," she says as she steps over him where he's collapsed to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Again, not really Christmas special speculation so much as GETTING OUT MY INCREDIBLE ANXIETY TOWARD THIS GODDAMN CHRISTMAS SPECIAL AS CREATED BY ALL THESE INTERVIEWS. Namely, the Mirror's BS article that made it seem like River wouldn't know the Doctor for much of the episode.
> 
> Inexplicably Aplans also celebrate Christmas/other winter holidays for the purpose of this fic. I have no explanation other than laziness.

He knows he looks different this go around — much older, four times the eyebrows, he's lost the bow tie, but he's still the Doctor, and she's still River Song, and so when he hurries up to her where she's walking along the side of the road, after recovering from the near hearts attack he'd had upon seeing her for the first time in more years than he cared to count, he thinks it's going to be easy. He steps in front of her, blocking her path as he tries to not to  _completely_ break down.

"Hello, dear," he says, and he's sure that's enough. River  _knows_ him, all his faces. He doesn't think she'll have trouble recognizing this one after a moment.

His hearts pound in his chest as she stops and looks at him, her eyes scanning his face before she looks him up and down. Apparently it's not as easy as he thought, though, because she promptly huffs, steps toward him, and kicks him soundly between the legs.

"Don't 'dear' me," she says as she steps over him where he's collapsed to the ground.

Maybe not that easy at all, then.

 

 

Now that he knows River is — somehow, miraculously — out and about again, the TARDIS is all too happy to accommodate his desire to track her down. The next time he finds River, she's in the lobby of a posh restaurant in one of his  _favorite_ dresses of hers — short, black, elegant but low cut — even Time Lords have their weaknesses — and he walks up beside her as she fusses with her purse. He bumps his shoulder slightly against hers, feeling giddy at the prospect of  _properly_ seeing his wife again — oh, he hopes there's  _kissing_ — but she barely looks up at him, her brow furrowing with irritation as she shoots him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. She continues to rifle through her bag.

"Forget the revolver?"

"Sorry?" She finally looks at him properly, squinting.

"The revolver," he repeats, "that you usually carry in smaller purses."

"I'm sorry," says his sodding wife, "have we met?"

He blinks at her. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head and letting her purse fall to dangle at her side. She's wearing a pair of earrings that he bought her years ago, and he almost can't believe he's having this conversation with River when she's all over so familiar. "I think you have me confused for someone else."

"No, I know you," he says, "of course I know you. I'd know you anywhere."

"Oh... okay, then. I'm just going to —"

She turns to walk away, looking at him like he's lost the plot, and he can't help but gape a bit as he reaches out to grab her arm. He knows it's risky — she could probably throw him across the room if she felt so inclined — but he can't help it. He needs her to know it's him.

"It's me, River," he says.

"Me  _who_?" River says, blinking at him. There's something in her expression for a split second that makes him think she's messing with him — a bit of a twitch, upward or downward, he isn't sure, at the corner of her mouth. The way she hasn't beat him up for grabbing her. The way she happens to be wearing that dress and those earrings.

"You know, don't you?"

"Uh," River says, disentangling herself from his grasp and stepping back. "I'm sorry, I  _really_ don't think we've met.

"Oh, come off it," he says, starting to smile. She _must_ be taking the piss. He reaches out to grab her again, stepping into her personal space, and her lips purse. "I don't buy this act for a second, and if I weren't so pleased to see you, I'd be more than a little cross about my wife not kissing me hello. And believe you me, River,  _this_ face does cross like it does breathing."

"This face? Wife?"

There it is, he thinks. She's got it. He's a little disappointed he had to be so obvious, but he's really too busy thinking about the first kiss from River Song in maybe more than a century to be  _that_ bothered. He steps in further to her, reaching a hand up to pat her hair, and but when he looks at his face she's amused, and then she throws her head back and  _laughs_ at him, stepping back. 

"Wha —"

"You?" she says, still laughing. "The Doctor? Oh, honey, I don't think so. You can find mention of our marriage through all the galaxy's history books, but you neglected in your research to realize that I  _know_ the Doctor. And  _you_ certainly are not him."

His jaw drops, hands falling at his sides.

"Now," she continues, fluffing her hair, "I don't know what you're up to or who put you up to this, but just keep in mind that I could rip your spinal cord from your body and wrap it around your neck like a bowtie, so piss off, hm? My girlfriend will be here any minute."

"Your — !?"

" _Piss off_ ," River says, stepping toward him, her expression entirely serious now, and he knows better than to press her. Stunned and more than a little smarting, the Doctor stumbles out of the restaurant, gulping in air the moment he's outside.

River Song, Melody Pond, child of his oldest friend and his best friends, his bespoke psychopath, the woman whose name is written all across the stars as the woman who married him, and she doesn't know who he is. Worse, he  _told_ her, and she won't believe him. He thinks about going back in with the sonic, or materializing the TARDIS around her, but then, if she's truly convinced he isn't who he says he is, what if she thinks he stole those things from the real Doctor? Of course, he's got two hearts. Aren't a whole lot of others — aside from her — that have  _that_. But it's really the principle of the thing. She's his  _wife_ , and he's missed her achingly, and she keeps looking right through him. _  
_

And she's going on a  _date_ with her  _girlfriend_!

He's just going to have to make her see, then. The Doctor stalks off back to the TARDIS, and heads out to find River a couple of weeks in her personal future.

 

 

Next time he finds River, she's in America, celebrating Thanksgiving if the turkey in her shopping cart is any indication. He follows her for a few aisles, glad to have a regeneration that's far less likely to bang into a shelf and knock everything off of it, before grabbing a shopping cart of his own. He throws a few odds and ends into it, and then starts at the opposite end of an aisle from River, pretending to look at what's on the shelves until he gets close enough to accidentally run his cart into hers. He thinks he manages to make it look at least passingly realistic. River jolts, looking up at him with a scowl before recognition flits across her features and she rolls her eyes.

"Remember that bit about the spinal cord?" she says. "Because that was just off the cuff. I can get more creative, if you'd like."

"No need," he says with a snort. "Not following you. Just doing some shopping. Errands, you know." He grabs a box and pretends to read the label, but he's really staring at her out of the corner of his eye. He can't  _not_. He wants to grab her hand and pull her into him and hug the daylights out of her, and finally kiss her, and drag her back into the TARDIS for about a week before taking her on every date she's ever imagined and several she hasn't, but she won't  _let_ him. So all he can do it  _look_ at her, and embarrassingly, even that is enough to make his hearts sing.

"Ah, yes," River says, stepping somewhat toward him to peer at the box he's holding. "Anti-fungal cream. Got an itch?"

"Ye — no!"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she says. 

"Shut up."

River laughs, rolling her eyes at him again before pushing her cart away from him, down the aisle. He hurries to catch up.

"Wait, River," he says. "Really, it's me — I'm the Doctor."

"No," she says, her shoulders tensing. "You certainly are not."

"Can you at least give me a chance?" he says. "To prove it to you?" 

"No," she says shortly.

"But then how do you  _know_?"

She laughs grimly, shaking her head. Her curls dance, and he wants to bury his hands in them and hold her close, but he can't  _do_ that, because she'll rip his spinal cord from his body and make him wear it, or something more creative, and he certainly knows her well enough to know that letting her get  _creative_ is never a good idea.

"I just do," she says. 

He starts to follow her, jabbering on about the turkey in the cart and how she's not even really American, even if she did sort of for a time grow up here, not that she can really remember, and how if she's going to insist upon celebrating a ridiculous imperialist holiday that she has no connection to, she should at least invite him over to help her eat the turkey, because she'll never be able to finish it on her own and —

They turn a corner and she kicks her foot out, and before he even realizes it a cardboard display stacked high with boxed mashed potato mix is tumbling over on top of him and knocking him to the floor.

 

 

He finds River next in a dimly lit bar some where in the eighty-second century, some Jazz Age throwback singer crooning on stage and several dozen impeccably dressed people milling about, talking and drinking. River's somewhere around the middle, talking to a few others who stand around her like subjects holding court with their queen. He takes a few moments just to watch her, and to watch other people watch her, because although he knows what a bewildering experience it is to be on the receiving end of his wife's charms when she's really putting effort in, it never really gets old to watch. Everyone's eyes fixed on her as she speaks, everyone's body language focused toward her. When she laughs, every one laughs. When she listens attentively to some man's story, he flushes. When she reaches out to touch the forearm of a woman across from her and says something with a smirk, the woman looks giddy. She's a magician, really, or a witch, and he's never more glad that she's given up her life of crime than he is when he watches her do this dance.

He gets himself a drink and approaches her slowly, waiting for the group around her to diminish until she's almost entirely on her on. She spots him when he's not far from her, and he raises his glass to her. She just narrows her eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"Saying hello," he says.

"If I didn't know you knew better, I'd say you were following me."

"Maybe I just like you," he says.

She raises her brows. "Stalking isn't exactly the way to a girl's heart."

"Just one?"

"Sorry?" she asks.

"Just one heart," he says, smiling a bit. He wonders if maybe that bit of knowledge about her will catch her interest, but she just looks at him like he's mad.

"Yes, how many could I possibly have?"

"I don't know," he says, deflating. They stand in somewhat awkward silence for a moment before he notices she's finished her drink. "Can I buy you another?"

She appraises him for what feels like ages before holding out her empty glass to him and shrugging. "What's one drink between stalker and victim?"

He feels his heart soar and even his cranky, Scottish face cracks into a grin as he takes it from her and heads to the bar. He doesn't even bother to ask her what she's drinking, he just orders what's always been her favorite and hurries back to her. 

"Your favorite," he says, passing it off to her. 

She sips it, then shrugs. "It's alright."

He sighs, cross his arms and glaring at her as she sips her drink, looking up at him with a smirk tugging at her lips. He won't ever admit it, but he's at a loss. There seems to be nothing he can do to convince her he's telling her the truth, and anything he can think of to convince her might end up being dangerous to him — or worse, confirm the sneaking feeling that she's being  _deliberately_ dense. That she doesn't  _want_ it to be him. That's a thought that makes his stomach heave, because even looking at her is just — he doesn't have words. He'd thought his days with River Song were over, and maybe they were, but to be able to spend even one more evening with her? Well, when presented with that opportunity, whether she accepted that he was her husband or not, he was going to have to take it.

When she started to turn away from him, he grabbed her drink and set it on a nearby ledge, instead braving a step into her personal space and clasping her hand in his.

"Dance with me?"

"Why should I?" she asks, turning to face him, looking more than a little petulant, but she doesn't pull her hand from his. He takes that as assent to tangle his fingers with hers, holding her hand tightly and stepping into her so that she has to tilt her head back to see him.

"You owe me," he says.

"What, for the drink?" she says, laughing. "This is the eighty-second century, darling, gender roles are so passé so if you think —"

"Not for the drink," he interrupts, shaking his head and stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. He stares intently at her, and swears he sees her eyelids flutter, but she gives her hair a shake and he can't be sure. "For the attempted castration a couple weeks ago."

"You're severely underestimating me if you think I  _attempt_ anything."

"I'm trying to banter, River," he says, feeling his frustration rising. River's always been contrary and stubborn, but it's always been playful, before. He's always known the steps to their little dances, but now he feels like he's stumbling. "I'd never underestimate you."

"If that were true," she says, "you never would've grabbed my hand."

"Don't see you pulling away."

"It's not often strangers who know who I am are this stupid," she says, "I'm just wondering how far you'll take it."

"Is that an invitation?"

"More like a warning."

"Never did listen to those," he says.

"Dangerous," she replies, raising her brows.

He steps even closer to her, bending slightly so that his face is as close to her as she dares. She's smiling, but it's all teeth, and he's not sure how much of this is flirting and how much is a genuine warning — and even though that thought should make him cautious, it mostly just makes him restless, because tastes may change with bodies, but  _oh_ , does he  _ever_ still love a bad girl.

"I'm a dangerous bloke," the Doctor says.

She laughs, low in her throat, reaching up her free hand to trail the very edge of her nail over his cheekbone.

"Then let's dance. As long as you understand that it's at your own risk."

"I thought we _were_ dancing."

Her smile widens. He releases her hand, sliding it around her to press the flat of his palm against the small of her back as he guides her to the dance floor.They press through the throng of people, wrapped up together and gently swaying to the music, and he focuses very hard on the singer over River's left shoulder, trying to tamp down on the stupid, silly tangle of emotions he feels lodging in his throat as River settles into his arms for the first time in years.

"There's dancing and  _dancing_ ," River says.

The way her voice drops low never fails to make him shiver. "Is that an invitation?" he repeats.

She clicks her tongue. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Bit late for that," he says. "I'm already envisioning us married, dozens of fat children. Maybe a dog."

"I'm not a wedding person," she says, and he feels the tension run through her as she says it. He wants to tug her closer, to bury his face in her hair and tell her every line of their lives together until she believes him, wants to feel her hearts beating against his, wants to marry her again in a dozen or more ridiculous ways, but all he can do is drum his fingers where they rest on her back and frown.

"Neither am I," he says, "but there are always exceptions."

He spins her away from his body, and then back into him, pleased this body seems to be able to dance with a bit more dignity than the last. With her back pressed against his front and his arm wrapped around her, she turns her head to the side so that he can see her profile, and she's not smiling.

"Is that an invitation?" she asks, quietly.

" _Yes_ ," he says, meaning it with every fiber of his being. He spins her out —

"Bad luck, honey," she says. "My date's just arrived."

— and then she's gone, disappearing into the crowd. He spots her moments later, greeting some strapping stranger with an enthusiastic snog. He storms off into the TARDIS, and only sets out after her again a couple days later, after he's stopped brooding.

 

The next time he sees her, it lasts only five minutes. He stumbles into a party after showing the doorman his psychic paper, and is incredibly alarmed to find that he's gotten himself into what is undoubtedly a sex party. There are horizontal surfaces all over the place, a gratuitous selection of toys, enough alcohol to swim in, and dozens of people standing far too closely. He's glad, at least, he arrived at the beginning — this face may not blush so easily, but he's sure even he would've flailed out of his skin if he'd entered into an orgy. Not that he hadn't  _done_ that, a time or two. Being married to River Song required a certain amount of  _flexibility_ on his part, both literally and figuratively, but he'd at least had time to mentally prepare, in the past.

He finds her getting a drink, winking at the bartender, and he hurries up to her.

"Care to dance?"

She looks up at him briefly, opens her mouth to respond, and then snaps it shut. She turns to walk away from him, and he wants to pitch a fit. Instead he just stomps after her.

"What, no kiss hello for your husband?" he says, no small amount of petulance in his voice, which he'd be embarrassed about, if he weren't so irritated with how resolutely his wife was both denying who he was and presently  _ignoring_ him. While attending a  _sex_ party. 

"You're not my husband," she says, "you're just some mad man who follows me around."

"I'm sorry," he says, "has there ever been a difference between those two things?"

"The hello kiss, I'd imagine," River says.

Before he can say another word she pauses just long enough to stomp on his foot, and then drapes herself over the nearest person, kissing them hello while the Doctor hops around on one foot, cursing.

 

 

He finds her two more times in quick succession, and each time she's just as impossible, just as infuriating, just as vaguely violent toward him as she has been. He doesn't manage to get her to engage in a conversation, let alone at least _flirt_ with him, as she'd done at the jazz club. After she nearly breaks his nose slamming a door in his face, he waits a couple of months her time before seeking her out again. 

 

 

The Doctor finds River at a Christmas festival on Alfava Metraxis. Even though her fur-lined cape has two hoods, she looks wonderful and festive in a dress, half silver and sparkling, half blank and slitted up the side as she strolls through the stands of foods and goods and performances, her cheeks red with cold and a faint smile on her lips.

"Hello, sweetie," she says, the moment he catches up to her, and starts to walk at her side.

"Hello, River," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets to ward off the cold. "Happy Christmas."

She rolls her eyes at him. They walk in silence for a few moments while he searches for something to say, internally grateful that she hadn't tried to injure him yet, when he abruptly stops moving, feeling as though his hearts stopped in his chest.  
  
"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," she replies, stopping a few feet ahead of him. She turns around to look at him, brow furrowed.

"No, you — you did. When I got here, you said —"

"Oh," she says faintly, reaching a hand up to pat at her hair, and barely stopping herself from biting at her lip, as she always does when she's trying to act nonplussed.

"You called me sweetie."

"Slip of the tongue."

"River," he says, lurching toward her and grabbing both of her arms tightly, his hands practically shaking as he seeks out her gaze. " _River_. It's  _me_. You  _know_ it's me."

"I don't know anything."

"Why are you doing this?" he says, feeling like he's about to absolutely lose his mind. Here he'd been beginning to think it was hopeless — that for whatever reason, she'd never be convinced, and he'd never get her to come around, and that even though his wife was alive and well and living her life, he wasn't going to be able to be apart of it. She looks away from him, and starts to pull away, but he holds fast. " _River Song,_ Melody Pond, it's me! I'm the Doctor!" 

" _No_ ," she grinds out, "you are  _not_ the Doctor, because the Doctor is my husband, and  _husbands_ don't hang their wives out to dry for the better part of a _bloody century_." _  
_

"I didn't —" he stops, brow furrowing. "You  _knew_ it was me? The whole time? You recognized me?"

"Of course I recognized you, you arse! Even if I weren't the daughter of the TARDIS and couldn't feel all the time lines you've mucked up buzzing around you like a bunch of angry bees every time you come near me, I spent a fair few regenerations being trained by a fanatical religious cult to pick you out of crowd, ring a bell?" _  
_

"Oh."  
  
"Yes,  _oh_. Not recognize you,  _honestly_. If I had the spare emotional energy to do so, I'd be insulted."

"I didn't mean to insult you," he says, mostly because he doesn't know what on earth else he could possibly say. He'd seen her at Trenzalore, and that had been goodbye. She'd  _told_ him how to say goodbye, she'd known he was doing it, and he'd watched her fade out of his life for got.  _Or so he'd thought_. Of course he hadn't gone  _looking_ for her — she wasn't supposed to  _be_ here. He couldn't even begin to  _fathom_ how it was  _possible_ for her to be here, and if  _he_ — the  _Doctor_ — couldn't fathom it, she must've done something incredibly impressive, and likely more than a little insane. How could he have predicted that? How could she have expected him to come after her when he didn't even know she wasn't where he'd left her?

The answer is quite simple, and his whole body slumps as he realizes what a moron he is: she's River Song. From the moment he'd met her, she'd been exceeding and subverting his expectations. She once stopped time and derailed a fix point, bending the universe to her will, and that was just at her beginning. Of  _course_ she'd come up with something incredibly impressive and mad and brilliant to get herself out of the library. Of course she wasn't where he left her. He should've known.

"Weren't you listening?" she says, snapping her fingers in front of his face to draw his attention back from his wandering thoughts. "I'm  _not_ insulted. I'm  _angry_. You  _left_ me! I swear, Doctor, I know you better than I've ever known  _anybody._ I have a degree in  _you_ , for all intents and purposes. And even I didn't see that coming. I know you're a great bloody coward behind all your posturing and lofty deeds, and I know you leave all of your humans on doorsteps like dogs you don't want to care for anymore, but I didn't think you'd do that to  _me_."  


"I don't —  _abandon_   _anybody_. I didn't abandon you!"

"You  _did_ ," she says. "You left me in the Library. Even after you knew who I was — even after you knew what we — well, what I  _thought_ we were. And still you let me sit there on that shelf, feeding my  _brains_ out running through the same stories over and over again."

"I thought you'd like the adventure," he says, quietly. He's dropped his hands from her arms and stepped back from her, his head falling; he can't meet her gaze.

"News flash, sweetie: it ceases to be  _adventure_ when you know you can't be injured or killed or  _even bloody_ wrong _about anything_!"

"I didn't think that was — I didn't think there was anything I could  _do_."

"You didn't think, period," she says. "You let me go."

"Then why have you been acting like you don't know me?" he says, looking up at her abruptly. "If all this is you being mad at me, if all this is you being  _hurt_ that I  _left_ you, why wouldn't you let me  _find_ you?"

"You kept letting me go!" she says, throwing her hands up. "I was mad, and maybe a little mean — although no crueler than you, my love — and you kept letting me go! You kept letting me go on dates and letting me walk away, and I thought, oh, what's even the point? What's the point of having this conversation, of letting you talk your way out of it, of being with my husband again if he's just going to let me go whenever it gets a bit  _inconvenient_ for him?"

"Do you think it was  _easy_ for me?"

"Oh, of course, I'm sure the decision caused you a lot of angst and brooding."

"I thought it's what was best! I thought I didn't have a choice. I thought about getting you out of the Library a million times, but I couldn't think of anything that would be a guarantee. Everything came with a risk. A risk that I'd properly kill you in the process, a risk that you wouldn't come back whole, a risk that I'd lose parts of you downloading the data that makes up that infuriating head of yours, and I  _couldn't figure it out_. And I knew if I kept trying, I'd keep trying for the rest of my life and never accomplish anything but hurting you and after  _everything_ we've been through, do you _really_ think that I could do that?"

She blinks at him, deflating. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck as she scrubs hers over her face.

"I couldn't hurt you again," he says, stepping back toward her as she watches him warily. "I couldn't _disappoint_ you again. Guess I did anyway, eh?"

"Yes," she says.

"I'm..." he trails off, working his mouth around the words. Not because he doesn't feel it, but because it's not something this body is particularly comfortable doing — apologizing. "I'm sorry, River. I'm so, so sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"How?"

He rolls his eyes at himself preemptively. "By not letting you go."

She chokes out a laugh, stepping toward him and thumping him on the chest. It doesn't hurt, though, so he knows he's at least not going to get killed by his wife in the near future. 

"This is why I kept kicking and tripping and slapping you," she says. "Rule four hundred and twenty-two."

"Never let me talk."

He smiles, wrapping his arms around her, and with a shuddering sigh she collapses into him, digging her fingers into his back and burying her face in his neck. He burrows his face into her hair, inhaling deeply her familiar smell, and the warm scent of evergreen and mulled wine in the air. He hugs her tighter, until he worries she won't be able to breathe, but she doesn't seem to mind — she just clutches him closer, and presses her lips against his throat. It feels like years when they finally pull apart, and even though this body can barely stand holding hands, sometimes, he doesn't mind even a little bit.

"I really bolloxed things up, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Can you forgive me?"

She laughs, and he can't help but beam at her — although he wonders what that sort of expression looks like on this face, all craggy and dour — because the expression reaches her eyes for the first time since he'd found her again.

"It's been so long since I've said it," River says. "What's the line? Always and completely forgiven, my love."

"Even this?"

"You've done me much worse," she says.

"That's the Christmas spirit," he says, his face falling again. It's not that he doesn't think River has the right to be upset, or told hold a grudge — he knows she's spent the better part of a lifetime having her thoughts and feelings and choices invalidated by one ghoul or another, and he's not about to join those ranks — it's just that he's  _missed_ her, and here she is, and she finally knows who he is, or at least has finally admitted it, and now she's stepping away from him, looking thoughtful, when all he wants to do is hold her again.

"I've missed you," she says, "more than I could probably say without embarrassing myself, and I will forgive you, but I'm not quite ready to ride off into the sunset yet."

He nods, shoving his hands into his pocket and looking at the ground. "Good thing, too. I left the horses in my other coat."

She snorts. "Even still, it  _is_ Christmas."

"Yeah?" he asks, looking up at her with a budding smile. She holds out a hand to him.

"After everything," River says, "I deserve a bit of holiday cheer."

"More than just about anybody I've ever met," he agrees, twining his fingers with hers. "So are we... are we... alright?"

"For the night," she says, smiling at him softly as she gives his hand a tug so that he falls into step beside her. She disentangles her fingers from his when he starts to walk at her side, instead lifting his arm to wrap around her shoulders. "I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

He smiles, risking a quick kiss to her temple.

"Or at least slap you."

"I'm surprised I've lasted this long," he says.

"Well, you've been very well-behaved, all things considered," River says. "So keep it up, Doctor, and maybe there'll be a reward."

"Like what?" he asks, pulling her closer to him. She wraps her arms around him, and he thinks it must be an uncomfortable way to walk, but the fact that she's willing to put up with it to be closer to him makes his hearts sing.

"I think I spotted some mistletoe down one of the aisles," she says, "maybe I'll not-so-accidentally wander under it."

That sounds like the most appealing thing he's heard in the better part of a decade, but he knows he's wife, and she's got a secret tucked into her cheek, based on the purse of her lips and the mischievous look in her eyes. 

"Or..."

" _Or_ ," River says, grinning at him brightly and veering down a different aisle, "we could investigate murmurings of a real life Grinch who's supposedly stealing all of the presents from the Aplan kids. Which, if you'll recall, is quite a heft sum, given that each kid has two heads."

"I've missed you," he says, kissing the top of her head. He wants to pull her close again, wants to kiss her with or without mistletoe, wants to wrap himself around her and never let her go, but he knows this second chance — however they've come across it — needs to be on her terms. And besides, he's not  _un_ interested in investigating the Grinch. He's missed their adventures, only slightly less than he's missed her.

She pulls away from him, but grabs his hand as she guides him, and he follows willingly.

"Maybe there'll be time for mistletoe afterwards," she teases, giving him a wink.

"Maybe there'll be time for mistletoe somewhere in the middle," he suggests.

"Ooh, look at you," she says, "all grown up and not a blush in sight."

"You'd be surprised at the lengthy list of things that won't make me blush."

River throws her head back and laughs, and he knows then that everything's going to be okay. He's on a strange planet peopled by strange people celebrating a terribly familiar holiday, walking through a picturesque, snow-topped festival filled with fairy lights and the warm, wafting smell of mulled wine and hot chocolate and the chatter of happy people all around them, about to investigate an almost completely impossible mystery with his madcap wife; he's not sure he could ask for a better Christmas than that, but the thought that he can try to top it next year with River makes him smile and grip her hand all the tighter.


End file.
